


Best of (Worst) Intentions

by orphan_account



Series: Kinktober 2019 [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Incest, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Soft sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is, officially, a very bad idea.In the short term, V is Dante’s client. The fact that he’s paying Dante for a service, even if it’s not this particular service, makes him feel skeezy as hell. It’s probably not good for Dante’s reputation either. Or, it’s exactly in line with Dante’s reputation. V’s honestly not sure which is worse.In the long term…





	Best of (Worst) Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 1: Soft

This is, officially, a very bad idea.

In the short term, V is Dante’s client. The fact that he’s paying Dante for a service, even if it’s not  _ this particular _ service, makes him feel skeezy as hell. It’s probably not good for Dante’s reputation either. Or, it’s exactly in line with Dante’s reputation. V’s honestly not sure which is worse.

In the long term…

“Hey,” Dante coos, his beard scratching and scraping as he drags his lips up the silk-soft skin of V’s neck, and V doesn’t know whether to shy from the harshness or press into the feather-light gentleness. For all Dante is gentle, his hands are firm where then slide beneath V’s coat, like he knows V’s ready to bolt. “We don’t gotta do this if you don’t want. You set the pace here.”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair to either of them, when only one of them knows how this is going to end. Especially since V already knows that this isn’t going to end  _ fair _ \-- they’re both going to lose here, one of them a bit more than the other. 

And, not for the first time, V wishes that Urizen had thought to spare V a little of that precious  _ self control _ their better form was so well known for. But Dante’s hair is soft in V’s hands, his mouth pliant and willing, and V is  _ only human _ , after all. So horribly, wonderfully human, slender and delicate and burning beneath Dante’s hands.

“Relax,” Dante says, dropping kisses and nips beneath the curve of V’s jaw. V feels like there’s an inferno under his skin, flaring bright and hot where Dante’s body presses against his own. It feels like too much and not enough, and V is  _ desperate _ for it. Dante’s hand skips over the sharp curve of V’s hip, so close to where V wants to be touched and yet so far. V’s whine is high and aching as he twists, back arching, nails scrambling against the planes of Dante’s back. 

“ _ Relax _ ,” Dante says into the dip of V’s collarbone. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Relax.” 

Despite everything he knows, about Dante and himself and just how badly this is going to end, V. Slumps, like a puppet with his stings cut. Ignores the way his back aches from the strain in favor of the way Dante smiles against his skin, half-coherent praise down the stark line of V’s collarbone, against the curve where V’s neck meets his shoulder. It’s unbearably sweet, the whole of it, and the swell of emotion through V’s chest pricks tears at the corners of V’s eyes. 

They spill over when Dante pulls back, just enough to get a proper look at the mess V must be, misty-eyed and ruined already, skin rouged down his chest both from his own blush and from the scraping of Dante’s beard. But Dante thumbs the tears away, gentle beyond belief, smile wide and  _ wanting _ , until the honey-sweet feeling where V’s heart should be threatens to bubble over. 

Dante kisses him. Like V is something precious, like he is porcelain and mother of pearl that will crack beneath uncaring hands. And V  _ feels _ cracked, somewhere, the cavity of his chest flooding with the salvation Dante pours into him. V curls as close as their bodies will allow, like he wants to climb into Dante’s skin, roaming hands searching for the scars he knows should be there. The pain coils just a little bit tighter every time he finds one missing. 

“I’ve got you, Pretty Boy,” Dante murmurs, over and over, between kisses and firm touches, one hand slipping up, up over the mountains and valleys of V’s ribs, the other sliding down, down between V’s legs. “You gonna let me have you?”

It’s not fair to do this to him-- to Dante, to himself, to both of them. It’s going to hurt later. But V is only human, and not a very good one at that. 

“Yes,” V breathes, and tries not to feel like a thief for taking what Dante is giving. 

It’s slow, almost agonizingly so, Dante refusing to be hurried despite V’s best efforts, like they have eternity here and not just the hollow hours between one day and the next. He stretches V languidly until V feels loose and  _ wet _ , aching and leaking, keening into Dante’s mouth. And V can’t tell if it’s better or worse that there is so little burn when Dante finally enters him, because instead there’s just pleasure, mounting until it threatens to consume V from the inside out, and V almost hates himself for how badly he wants it to. 

V sighs as Dante finally bottoms out. He feels stretched wide, stuffed full, and he wants to drown in that sensation. He can barely keep his eyes open, though not for a lack of trying-- Dante is gorgeous like this, thin sheen of sweat and too-bright eyes. Demonic, almost, save for his too-soft expression, like V is salvation giving flesh, and though V squeezes his eyes tight he can still feel the tears that sneak their way through. 

This isn’t fair to V, and this isn’t fair to Dante, but V is a shell of a man, a phantom already half-dead, all of Vergil’s weakest aspects cobbled together into a crumbling form. He can’t deny himself this, and he won’t deny Dante this either. 

“Kiss me,” V demands instead, dragging Dante down, and lets Dante swallow his moan as Dante finally begins to move. 

Neither of them are going to last long-- Dante seems to be pent up, and V is unused to this kind of physical sensation. V doesn’t cry, except he does, though Dante has the decency not to acknowledge it. Just lets V shake apart against the curve of Dante’s neck, gentle gentle, gently murmured assurances into V’s hair and they come slowly, slowly from their highs. 

This is a bad idea, V tells himself, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. 


End file.
